Fire and Ice
by thorn-bird
Summary: What if Hawkeye, and not Trapper, had been the one to leave? TrapperxBJ slash
1. Eins

_. - . - . - . - ._

_**Trapper**_

_. - . - . - . - ._

_Some say the world will end in fire,  
Some say in ice.  
From what I've tasted of desire  
I hold with those who favor fire.  
But if it had to perish twice,  
I think I know enough of hate  
To say that for destruction ice  
Is also great  
And would suffice._

--Robert Frost

. - . - . - . - .

Okay, no. Okay?

I absolutely refuse to call Frank Burns my Commanding Officer. Henry, yeah, he was a good guy. No one bosses me around, but if any guy is going to do that it might as well be one like Henry. But Frank…no. I'm above him as a doctor and a person.

And the Red Sox'll win the World Series before I call him 'Sir'.

But that's exactly what he was trying to get me to do the morning I came back from Tokyo. Everyone was lined up at attention, and Henry wouldn't have made us do that ever. But then, Henry was above Frank as a doctor and a person too. A lot of people are, come to think of it.

Hawkeye wasn't around. I glanced through the crowd for him. Frank had stopped addressing the troops to chew me out for something. Sounded like he didn't like me wearing my shorts outside of my pants. Well, I couldn't help it. I had to get dressed in a hurry to catch my plane that morning. The underwear had been an afterthought—I hadn't even remembered them until the geisha in my bed rolled over to reveal them crumpled beneath her.

"It's fine, let him go back to that disgusting hole he calls a tent, Major," I heard Hot Lips scoffing. "He'll probably need some _alone_ time anyway."

I heard Ferret Face giggle, but I didn't want to ask what exactly she meant. Who knew what she _ever_ meant, anyway?

"With Pierce gone, maybe he'll find some time to catch up on his Bible study," Frank added. I knew what _that_ meant. Hawkeye must've spent the night in the nurses' tent again. Last time it had ended with a black eye. Poor Hawk never saw that book coming. Kellye has surprisingly good aim.

And he wasn't in the Swamp. But Radar was. Sitting on my cot, a glass in his hand. When he stood up, the gin sloshed out. He looked nervous, but this _is _Radar I'm talking about. You couldn't describe Radar without using the word 'nervous'.

"Radar," I said, dropping my bag on the floor. I pulled my jacket off and dropped it on the floor, then took his glass from him. "It isn't nice to be home at all. I'm glad to see you, but if you're going to drink from the still, try to get it in your mouth next time."

"It's for you," he said, sweating. He backed away. "Can I get your bag, sir?"

"Leave it there, Hawkeye'll rip it apart later when I tell him what's in it," I said, finishing what was left in the glass and pouring another. "I got this great bottle of Scotch in Tokyo. It's older than you. Not quite as wet, though, what's going on? You got a fever? You been eating the food?"

"Captain McIntyre—"

"Radar, how long have we known each other and you're still not calling me Trapper?" I asked, reclining on my cot.

"I'm sorry sir, I'm just nervous is—"

"Where's Hawk anyway?" I asked, ignoring him. "I want to say hi before I take a nap. Next time you go to Tokyo, Radar, you should—"

"_Sir_, I need to tell you something and I'd appreciate it if you'd stop interrupting me maybe," Radar said, his voice stern and brave. He quickly added, "Trapper, sir."

I sat up. "All right, Radar, I'm sorry. What is it?"

"We tried to get to you," Radar said hastilly. "Just remember that, okay? We tried but you didn't…I mean, we wanted to tell you. We thought you could come back early or something and…I don't know, but we _tried_."

"Okay," I said impatiently. "What _is_ it, Radar?"

"It's Hawkeye, sir…" he said very slowly, and my stomach did a flip flop.

I pictured Henry's face, peaceful, beneath the water. His clothes ballooned up around him. The image was a product of my own imagination, and it had haunted me. Henry's death _would _haunt me, I suspected, and so when Radar said 'It's Hawkeye' I immediately thought the worst.

"Hawkeye," I repeated slowly, my heart beating a million miles a minute. "He okay…?"

"He's fine, sir," Radar said slowly. "He got home last night."

"Well, where is he then?" I demand impatiently, wondering what the deal is.

"I don't mean here-home, sir, I mean home-home. He's back in Maine, sir."

My heart stopped beating fast. It pretty much stopped beating period, I think. I opened my mouth, closed it again. Opened it. I couldn't find any words. Maybe it's a joke, maybe it's this, maybe it's that. I searched for an excuse but…I knew he was gone. I felt stupid…his stuff was all missing, hadn't I noticed?

"So he's…not in Korea anymore?"

Radar swallowed hard, shook his head.

"He just left without saying goodbye? He's…home? Real home?"

Radar nodded. "Yeah. He should've gotten there last night."

I closed my eyes, trying to fathom…oh God. Hawkeye. Gone.

"He…left you this, though."

When I opened my eyes, Radar was holding out a plain white envelope. It felt thick as he handed it to me, but I didn't much feel like reading it. I dropped it on my bed and laid back. The room was silent for God knows how long, until the kid cleared his throat nervously.

"Sir, I have to go. I'm supposed to be picking up the new guy at 1300 hours."

The new guy? Oh, right. Hawkeye's replacement. My best friend's replacement. 1300 hours.

Radar left, and I was alone. Klinger and various others stopped by to welcome me back but I wasn't interested. I moped, and moped. The thought crossed my mind more than once to open the letter, read what he had to say. But a half an hour passed and I found myself wishing that Hawkeye really would end up with Henry's fate. At least, instead of Henry. Then Henry'd still be here and I'd have _someone_ in this lousy place. Jesus.

I tried to focus on the positive. I had a bottle of ancient Scotch in my bag. I had the whole tent to myself—

Well, for a while. Before The New Guy arrived. Hawkeye's replacement. The letter screamed at me from my cot. I had to get away.

I left the Swamp and found Frank and Margaret in Henry's office. He was behind the desk and she was _on _the desk. She rolled off when I entered, but I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to laugh at how flushed and ridiculous they both looked.

"Who's the new doctor, Frank?"

"Hah," Margaret said, smirking. "Wouldn't you like to know. You'll meet him soon enough. O'Reilly'll be back with him any minute."

"I'd like to do my homework."

"You're just sore cause you're all alone now. You can't terrorize me without Pierce around. I'll mold you into my friend, McIntyre. The upstanding patriot I know you can be," Frank said. His words made me sick to my stomach. But then, a lot of things Frank did made me sick to my stomach. It wasn't his whole insane nazi talk this time, though.

_You're all alone now._ It was chilling to hear out loud.

I began sorting through the pages on Henry's desk.

Margaret grabbed onto my arm. "You can't do that! Get off my—I mean, Major Burns's—desk!"

"I'm very cranky," I warned, glancing back at them. "My best friend just left me with nothing—"

"Oh, boo-hoo," Margaret scoffed, folding her arms over her chest.

"—and I'm in the mood to hit something," I finished anyway.

"You can't threaten me!" Frank exclaimed. "I'm your _CO_ now."

But when I took a step toward him he backed off. I found the manila folder almost immediately.

"Hunnicutt, BJ," I read out loud. "Stanford…blah blah blah…so that makes him 28."

"He's on his first assignment," Margaret said dreamily. "Young, impressionable."

I tossed the folder back on the desk. "Some California stuffed shirt, probably didn't get to finish Residency. Probably with about as much surgical talent as a frog. Or worse, Frank."

"You're not funny, McIntyre! Things are going to _change_!" Frank warned as I stormed away.

I remember when Louise told me she was pregnant with Becky. We sat on a bench in Maverick Square and she crossed her legs, took off her horn-rimmed glasses. She huffed on the lenses without saying a word and wiped them off with the skirt of her yellow dress. I had no clue what she wanted.

She was a waitress at a restaurant in the square, popping her gum as she scribbled down my order. I winked, she giggled, we spent three weeks in bed together and I hadn't spoken to her since. I'd been agitated when she called me, but she told me it was _very important_ that we meet. So we did. And she puffed on her glasses and I noticed her eyes were red and puffy.

"What's going on?" I asked.

She looked at me, took a deep breath, and said, "I'm gonna have your baby."

I knew it drove her wild when I kissed her navel. I knew she had a birthmark beneath her right breast. Sex made her thirsty and she liked it when I brought her a glass of water afterwards. But I didn't even know her middle name. I was 25 and she was 19. I'd just started med school and she'd barely graduated high school.

And she said it—just like that. _I'm gonna have your baby. _Louise had been raised down by the bay by a fisherman and a secretary and she talked like it. _I'm gonna have your baby. _

We got married, she 'had my baby', we fell in love—in that order—and blah blah blah. But of all my memories of Louise, that's the one that sticks out the most. And yeah, I think of her face when we first got into my bed and she pulled off her sweater. I see her crying when she was in labor and when I leaned in to kiss her after the priest gave the okay. But looking at her without her glasses in her yellow dress as she said _I'm gonna have your baby_ in her thick brogue…that's the one I _remember_. Sometimes you just have defining moments, you know?

And the moment I met BJ Hunnicutt…it was one of those.

He had blue eyes and skin tanned from the California sun. He was tall and thin, in that dress uniform with every button in place. He tilted his hat up when he extended his hand.

"Hello," he said, smiling with ridiculously white teeth. He was perfect. Perfect posture, perfect manners, perfect this, perfect that. "I'm BJ Hunnicutt."

_Hawkeye would've hated him,_ I thought, shaking his hand.

"Trapper, right?" Hunnicutt asked.

"Yeah, that's me."

"It's nice to meet you. Corporal O'Reilly—"

"You mean Radar."

"Radar."

"You're a Captain, Captain. You're allowed to call him what you want."

"I feel funny having people salute me," he said with a forced-looking smile.

"They should salute you," I said, testing him as I filled a martini glass. "They're beneath you, right?"

"You don't honestly believe that, do you?"

"No, but I bet _you_ do."

"I'm sensing a little hostility," Hunnicutt said slowly, nervously. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Not yet. Sit down. That's your cot. You want a drink?"

"Not now, thanks."

"You'll be begging for it after your first OR session," I said indifferently. "You're from California?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"I've been doing my homework. Frat boy. Stanford. Trained at Fort Sam. You married?"

"Yeah."

"Kids?"

"One. She's a baby. At least, she was when I left."

I waited for him to do the inevitable. You ask a guy about his kids, and it's basically an invitation for him to whip out his wallet and show you a zillion pictures of the brats. But he didn't. He just sat still, very rigidly. I wondered if he was anxious or just uptight. I'd almost made up my mind about him, but not quite.

He took off his hat and placed it on his cot behind him.

"Well, I don't see the mark of Satan on your forehead," I said dryly, taking a sip. "You must not have met Frank yet."

"Major Burns?" Hunnicutt asked.

"He prefers Ferret Face."

"He prefers it, or _you _prefer it?"

"He does. If I had it my way, we'd call him something much worse. What do you think of him?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," Hunnicutt said with a smile. "I have a feeling it's a lose-lose situation."

"You think you need my approval or something?" I asked.

"I'm going to be living with you. It'll be a lot easier if we don't hate each other."

"I don't hate you, California. I don't even know you."

"You seem to know a lot about me, actually."

"I read your file."

"Ah."

"Yeah, I was curious about the guy who was replacing my best friend."

"If you want me to—"

"Just answer me this. You ever heard of Crabapple Cove?"

"No…."

"Good. Because people from Crabapple Cove are backstabbing, ungrateful pricks."

"I'll remember that…?" California said questioningly.

"You should. Useful advice. Something else you should remember—"

"Attention, all personnel! Incoming wounded! Looks like a big batch, everyone report to triage."

"—is that you need to be prepared for _that_. I hope you're a better surgeon than you are a conversationalist. You probably want to take that uniform off, California, don't want to get it all dirty."

_. - . - . - . - ._

_Thanks and much love to Kelly, who is not only the angel of Beta, but also has a very sexy name ;) Reading and reviewing earns you a ticket to heaven. _


	2. Zwei

_. - . - . - . - ._

_**BJ**_

_. - . - . - . - ._

I like to think that I see the good in things. My optimism is one of my better qualities. But I've been in Korea for less than 24 hours and I can honestly say that there is nothing good about it.

I do not like my unsanitary living quarters. I do not like my cot, which is about as comfortable as a slab of marble. I do not like my Roy Cohn-loving jackass of a CO. I do not like his McCarthyist girlfriend. And I do not like my crass, passive-aggressive roommate, who may or may not be completely and utterly schizophrenic.

I can take all that. Not happily, mind, and not easily, but I can do it because I'm good at prevailing through such things. Because I'm an _optimist_.

However. I don't think I'll get used to surgery. And I think that if I ever have to see another scalpel again in my life, I will use it to slit my throat.

It lasted eleven hours. Eleven hours. I have never in my life pulled and yanked a man's ribs into place. I have never set a leg with bombs going off behind me. And I have never in my life had to dig through the innards of someone to find very small pieces of metal and drop them in a bucket.

Pulling out the shrapnel was easy, though. But while I was in the middle of doing so, behind me, McIntyre had to do an open-heart massage. When I heard the man's ribcage crack as McIntyre pulled him open, I gagged and my eyes filled with tears. I didn't want to throw up in a surgical mask. It couldn't be a pleasant experience. And the kid survived, but my chest ached just thinking about how much he would be hurting when he woke up.

I was slow and unseasoned. I'd never felt more incompetent. A short, curvaceous nurse assisted me, whispering in my ear. "You're doing fine" and "It's okay, it's okay" and I didn't feel better. The priest was very kind to me, very encouraging. I hadn't lost a patient yet, but then, I'd had quite a bit less than the other two surgeons.

And just when things couldn't _possibly_ get any worse at _all_, they did.

"There's a whole new batch," Houlihan said, walking in as a nurse slid fresh rubber gloves on my hands. She dabbed at my forehead.

And the corpsmen brought in the girl. Sixteen, maybe. I stared down at her. Then I looked up.

"I don't think I can do this," I said out loud.

"You'll do fine, Hunnicutt," Burns muttered.

"Whatcha got, California?" McIntyre asked.

"Snapped sternum. Punctured lung. I don't think I can—"

"Get to it, Hunnicutt, we're all busy over here," Burns snapped. "And you're behind."

"Be careful, California. Hot Lips, you go over there. Kellye, you come over here, sweetie."

I wasn't paying attention. I was on the verge of tears. I was tired, scared, and disgusted. I had never seen damage this massive before in my life. Apparently it was just another patient to these people, but I had to fix her and I had to fix her fast.

But I couldn't. Something went wrong. It was all a blur later. A blur of words and breathless moments in which I did everything I could, which wasn't much. McIntyre pushed up behind me. He was calm and composed. And I stepped back and watched him do _his _best.

And the nurse down at the girl's head glanced up, her eyes sad but unsurprised above her mask. She removed her stethoscope and shook her head. Then the priest came and muttered in Latin, and then Houlihan said, "Klinger!" And McIntyre looked up at me with pine-cone colored eyes. I wanted to see tears, but there was nothing. He looked sympathetic, but he didn't say anything. I stared back in shock, remembering the look on her face. So placid. So calm. Could've been my daughter. Did she suffer? How much pain had she been in before she passed out? The lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it.

McIntyre glanced around and called "NEXT!" as he was given fresh gloves. So I glanced around and called, "NEXT", but my voice got caught in my throat. I tried again.

And later, it was all over but I still felt the bright lights on my neck. I still felt my heavy scrubs, hot, covered with a sticky red mess. I still heard the clicking of instruments. The whole time, Burns was saying things like "You're not being very vocal today, McIntyre" and McIntyre always had some sort of retort. But other than that, no one said much, unless it was to request a clamp, or wipe, or scalpel, or scissors, or….

I sat alone in my tent for a long time. Outside, the moon was orange, glowing gently. Some people walked by, talking and laughing and I thought, _How can they laugh?_

The priest—his name was Father Mulcahy—stopped by. I told him I didn't feel like talking. He told me he was right across the compound if I needed to. But never talking to anyone again seemed like a good idea at that point.

I saw their faces. Asleep. Some of them were awake when I got them, crying in pain and shock. They went under and I nervously began. They never knew I was as surprised as they.

My name was in the shifts, my name was on the duty rosters, my name was in the mixture of this insanity. I was Hunnicutt, BJ, Captain. I was, now. I was supposed to go on Post-Op duty early in the morning. My first ever. I should've been getting some sleep—I'd barely slept the last few days anyway, so nervous about coming over to this place—but I couldn't.

McIntyre walked through the door when the sun was first beginning to rise.

"You still awake?" he asked, and I nodded.

McIntyre reached for a martini glass. I remembered what he'd said earlier about me needing a drink after OR. I didn't want to admit he was right, but being completely soused right now seemed wonderful. At least I'd get some sleep.

But, right about then, being dead seemed wonderful.

"Can I have some?" I asked pathetically.

"I was wondering when you'd ask," he said. He filled two glasses and handed one to me.

It smelled like ammonia and tasted about the same. The sensation of it going down my throat was about the same as the time I fell flat on my back, off the jungle gym in second grade. I coughed a bit, trying to regain my breath, and he laughed.

"Not one for the hard stuff. I could've guessed."

"What is it, antifreeze?"

"No, but that's one of the ingredients," he said, sitting down. I watched him sip it in disbelief.

"How can you do that?"

"You get used to it," he said. He glanced up over the rim of his glass. "You get used to everything here, you know."

"How in the name of…" I stared down into my own glass, dared to take another sip, and looked up. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

"You will," he assured me grimly.

We sat in silence, drinking. The sun was rising, the earth changing from black to the color of the flowers on Peg's china. I felt sick. I missed her. I missed Erin. Already it seemed like years since I'd seen them. The alcohol was hitting my stomach hard, and I knew it was a mistake to be drinking—I hadn't had anything to eat.

"Are you married?" I dared to ask him.

"Mmhmm."

"Kids?"

"Two."

"Boy? Girl? Both? One of each?"

"Girls."

"How old?"

"Seven and five."

A few more moments of silence. "Can I see a picture?"

"What do you care what my kids look like, California?"

"We're going to be stuck here, I thought it'd be nice to get to know one another," I said briskly. Then, a few moments later, "Where are you from? Crabapple Cove?"

"I told you, California, only jerks come from Crabapple Cove."

"I know," I said. I wanted to smile proudly, but I don't think I had a smile in me. I'd never smile again.

"Yeah, yeah, got me. Boston."

"So is it okay if I call you _Boston_, then?"

"Boston doesn't have the same ring as 'California', California. What am I supposed to call you? Hunnicutt?"

"You could try BJ. Has a lot less syllables than the other two."

"What's BJ stand for, anyway?"

"Whatever you want."

We said nothing for a long time. I closed my eyes and leaned back. The alcohol was affecting me, but I couldn't get the images out of my mind. I blinked hard. I shut my eyes so hard I saw different colors behind my eyelids, but they were replaced by the angelic face of a sixteen year old Korean girl as she was rolled away….

"Oh, for Christ's sake," I heard McIntyre sigh. "Please don't do this. Dammit. You know, if you act like a human being it makes it a whole lot harder for me to hate your guts."

I felt his hand on my shoulder. Then I felt his weight beside me on my cot. Then I felt his whole arm around me, and he smelled like peroxide and gin. So maybe he wasn't schizophrenic.

"You're gonna get used to it."

"I don't want to get used to it," I said stubbornly, refusing to look up. I felt ridiculous—_when was the last time I'd cried like this?_—and exhausted, a little drunk.

"You're gonna. And you know what? If you don't get used to it, California…you're my fucking hero."

I glanced up, finally. "Guess you're not that much of a jerk after all."

"Nah. But don't tell anyone. I've got a reputation to protect."

"So call me BJ."

"I will some day."

_. - . - . - . - ._

_Martinis for reviewers. _


	3. Drei

_. - . - . - . - ._

Trapper 

_. - . - . - . - ._

The day after BJ Hunnicutt arrived, he obediently participated in Frank's calisthenics. Most everyone did, in fact, but I refused. Even if I weren't still pissed and sporting one hell of a hangover, I wouldn't have.

At breakfast, he sat across from me at the table in the mess tent with his, oh, let's say _food, _and glanced up at me. He smiled. I didn't.

For the next ten minutes, I tried to focus on anything but my breakfast. California tried to focus on anything but the patient he'd lost yesterday. Not like he said anything about it…because he didn't say anything at all. But I had a faint idea of what was going on behind his eyes anyway. He hadn't lost hope yet, but he was obviously disturbed. His friendly and laid-back demeanor seemed to have disappeared after yesterday. But, good. If he hadn't been disturbed, _I_ would've been disturbed and…well, anyway, the point is, it was a quiet and uneventful morning. For ten minutes.

Frank sat down beside California a short time after I'd eaten the edible portion of my meal and said, "Good morning, BJ. How'd you sleep, BJ?"

California's mouth twitched. He looked like he was dying to say something awful to our CO (wow, that still gives me shivers), but instead he just shrugged and smiled good-naturedly. "Oh, fine I guess."

"Listen, I don't want you to feel bad about what happened yesterday—"

"Shut up, Frank," I muttered. He didn't listen. He _never listens_.

"—because it happens to all of us. We've all lost one, isn't that right, McIntyre?"

"That's right Frank. Some more than others."

"And _BJ_," Frank went on, picking up his coffee cup. The way he said 'BJ' was really getting on my nerves. "You should know that if anything's going wrong—"

I looked up. "Frank, shut up."

"—with _anyone_—"

"Fra-ank," I said, and Frank continued on—though slightly faster this time.

"—even if it's someone you get close with, someone you live with—"

"_Frank_."

"—you should just know that I'm your friend, and if anyone harasses you—"

I slammed my hand down on the table. All three trays shook. Frank's coffee splashed out of the cup. But at least he stood up. California looked confused—and who doesn't look confused when lunatics decide to rant? Frank gave me the evil eye before moving to another table, and my new roommate glanced up at me.

I left my dishes on the table and left the tent, seething. All it took with Frank was a warning tone to get him to shut up, the assault of an inanimate object to get him to leave.

But, oh, the joy I would get from clocking the little weasel. Even giving him a good piece of my mind. It'd accomplish nothing, but it'd make me feel a tiny bit better. I didn't want California to be like him, like Frank. Even if he _wasn't_ like Frank, I didn't want him to listen to anything Frank had to say. Maybe it was selfish of me, like I wanted to keep him all to myself. But I knew what Frank would say.

I still haven't opened Hawkeye's letter. I don't really know if I should. Not out of spite—although that is a good reason—or anything like that. More like I'm afraid, though if anyone asked me why I wouldn't know what to say.

Maybe it _is_ out of spite, or protest or hatred. Though, deep down I know I don't really hate Hawkeye. How could I?

I just wished, at that moment, that I could see him long enough to at least give him a nosebleed.

I fingered the envelope after breakfast, pondering its contents. It was looking slightly dirty and worn around the edges. Hawkeye had evidently asked one of the nurses to place a lipstick kiss on the front. At least, I hope he'd gotten a nurse to do it. Absently, I ran my finger over the sticky lip-print, smudging it slightly in the process. It was hot pink, and at the image of Hawkeye carefully applying it in the mirror, I laughed.

"What?" California asked, laughing too, despite his earlier and understandable grouchiness. He had a very, very infectious laugh.

"Nothing," I said, shaking my head.

"What's that?" he asked, motioning at the letter.

"Nothing," I said again, and I shoved it back into my pocket.

I spent the rest of the morning in the Swamp. Reading, drinking, throwing darts, drinking, fooling with my ukulele, completing a word-find, and drinking were a few of the things I did that morning.

California had been in Post-Op all morning. I was feeling too lazy to go check up on him, but no one had come running to me saying there was a major emergency so I assumed it was all right. He returned eventually, and sat on Hawk's cot—writing in a notebook. I couldn't see it, but I did make out "love", "Peg", and "scared" more than once. He looked pale and sick from lack of sleep, but his eyes were wide and awake.

Around ten AM, when I had lost count of holes in my blanket, California said, "What was Major Burns talking about? This morning, at breakfast?"

"If there's one thing you need to know about Frank," I said, deciding I needed another drink, "It's that he's nuttier than fruitcake and twice as thick."

I half-expected him to laugh—or maybe I was hoping he would so I could hear him do it again—but he looked completely serious. Just as I'd thought, Frank had gotten to him.

"If there are two things you need to know about Frank," I said, sighing as I sat back down with a full glass of gin, "It's that he's nuttier than a fruitcake, and that you shouldn't listen to a word he says. Ever. I guess that goes without saying, though, you don't want to take the advice of a lunatic."

"So what? Was he just trying to get on my good side, or something?" California asked, looking mildly annoyed.

"No, he's trying to get _you_ on _his_ bad side, which is really the only side he has. Look, California…he doesn't like me. And that's okay, 'cause I don't like him either," I lowered my glass. "But…people get ideas about things. Things…that they don't actually know anything about."

California opened his mouth, but I went on before he could interrupt.

"You better stay away from Frank. Not just because it'd be a whole hell of a lot easier to live with you, but because it's better for you. You're a nice kid."

"I'm not that much younger than you," California said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to be friends with Frank, he's a…he's just…."

"The word you're looking for is 'rodent'," I supplied.

"Sure," he said through a yawn. "The point is, I just want to know what he was playing at. What are you going to do, kill me?"

"Maybe indirectly," I said, patting the still. "But it's nothin'. Don't pay attention to Frank. He's as dumb as he is a bad doctor."

"Wow. He must have the IQ of a fruit fly. But I guess I don't have room to talk."

"Belt?" I held up the beaker, ignoring his self-deprecation.

"_Attention, all personnel. Incoming choppers. All staff report to the chopper pad immediately. Incoming choppers…._"

Adding to my new roommate's paleness was fear, now. I didn't blame him. I grabbed his arm.

"Come on, California. It'll be here when we get back."

_. - . - . - . - ._


	4. Vier

_. - . - . - . - ._

_**BJ**_

_. - . - . - . - ._

It was after my second time in OR that Trapper invited me to the Officer's Club with him. It had gone more smoothly than my first, certainly, but I was still tired, annoyed, and slightly disturbed.

"I'm too tired," I sighed, dropping onto the bench in the scrub room.

"Come on," he urged, bringing his knee up to his chest to tie his shoes. "Drinking'll help you sleep. And hey, you still got a whole camp to meet."

"I've met them," I said irritably. "And I don't think I want to be reintroduced."

"You can't be a hermit while you're here," he said wisely. "You need to make friends. It's the only way you're gonna get by."

I just shook my head and left. "They hate me, Boston."

No one in the camp—beside maybe Frank and Major Houlihan—seemed too pleased that my predecessor was gone. And all of them seemed to think it my fault he had left, like he was some dead puppy and I was the unacceptable replacement. I couldn't blame them, I guess. This Pierce seemed like a fun guy, a good doctor—a hero, really—and much more. Everything, I supposed, that I couldn't even _pretend_ to be under these circumstances.

No one was throwing coffee cups at me in the mess tent, or anything, but no one had gone out of their way to be anything more than polite—except Frank. I was beginning to understand the treatment he was getting from the camp.

He behaved more like a weasel than the one my little sister had attempted to keep as a pet when she was eight. The more I looked at him, he began to resemble one as well—until I realized that the nickname 'Ferret Face' was justified.

He tried to tell me again that he was 'there' if I needed to 'confess' anything 'funny' that 'that roommate' of mine was doing. He said it a lot, actually. When I asked him to explain himself, he usually just snorted, nodded as if I already knew, and turned back to his cup of coffee—or patient, as the case was. He treated them about the same.

The second time McIntyre invited me to the Officer's Club with him, I'd been at the 4077th for a week and it was a very calm, cool evening; silver and pink as the sun procrastinated going down. It was stuck somewhere between night and day, and the full moon had already risen, as if to urge the sun along. I'd been writing my daily letter to Peg—four pages long this time—and was about to sign it when McIntyre snapped me from the sort of trance I'd gone into, with a, "Hey, what are you doin' tonight, California?"

"I'm going to get dressed up nice and pretty and see the Ziegfeld Follies," I said sarcastically, attempting to fit the pages into an envelope.

"Sounds like fun," McIntyre said, insouciant. He was shaving for the first time since I'd met him, looking in a very grimy mirror suspended by the pipe of our wood stove. "But I got a better idea."

"What?"

"Come to the Officer's Club with me. You know Peters? Redhead. Tall," he held his hand high over his head.

"Yeah," I said slowly.

"Word is she's got the hots for you."

"Could've fooled me," I said, somewhat bitterly.

"I know these things," he insisted. "It's a small camp. And anyway, doesn't matter, California—you're driving me crazy. You're driving yourself crazy."

There was a pause as he dragged the razor down his philtrum.

"Nothing a tall drink of water can't fix," he added, chuckling. "You're coming with the Officer's Club with me."

"I'm married," I said.

"I promise I'll be a perfect gentleman."

"I'm _serious_."

"So am I. Fooling around with Peters isn't gonna hurt nothing."

"It hurts my wife."

"Not mine. She's probably playing back seat bingo with her boss right now," McIntyre dried his face and turned to me and said in a sing-song voice, "She used to be a paper shaker, California. I'm sure she'd be glad to show you a few moves. You could buy her a drink…."

"No," I said flatly.

"Ah, you're no fun," he said with a wave of his hand. He ran a comb through his hair quickly and with that, he was gone. Part of me wished I'd gone with him as I suddenly felt more alone than I was.

By my third week at the MASH, I learned where Trapper went late at night and that his meaningless flirtations in OR weren't so meaningless after all. He drank a lot…usually from the still, but he played poker games in the Officer's Club where his liver had something other than gin destroying it.

I had gotten used to that, and I'd gotten used to Ferret Face and the food (I'm not a picky eater). I'd gotten used to a lot of things, but I refused to admit that I was getting used to the war, I refused to acknowledge that maybe McIntyre was right and I'd eventually get used to _all_ of it.

April was ending, and with it, Korea's short spring. Thus began summer, and it wasn't like California summer—it was rain. All the time. _Changwa_, the locals called it. Not even sun showers, just _rain. _The place was depressing enough without being drowned. When I expressed this to McIntyre one wet breakfast, he assured me that toward the end of summer I would be begging for the rain.

_Not likely,_ I thought, shoving my helmet under another leak in the ceiling.

People slowly grew more friendly toward me, including McIntyre, who seemed really reluctant the third time he asked me to join him for a drink.

"This stuff is rotting your insides," he said, motioning at the still. "Or, you wanna go to Rosie's? She—"

"Let's go to the club," I agreed, finishing off my glass and holding my jacket over my head from the ridiculous rain. McIntyre looked surprised that I agreed, but he joined me at the door.

"Ready?" he asked, peering out at the nearly-flooded camp.

"Want to borrow my umbrella?" I asked, nodding up at my jacket.

"One, two…._three_!"

We dashed across the compound, mud splattering all the way up to my elbows. McIntyre almost fell into a corpsmen shielding a box of sulfa with his body, but other than that we arrived inside the relatively warm Officer's Club unharmed. Except, Trapper and my jacket were soaked. And I was covered with mud, but I'd learned to accept that as a normal part of existence. Mud…came with all the canvas and blood.

It was a quaint little bar, a slot machine and a piano where the priest was playing As Time Goes By as a few people danced. I felt the familiar pang of homesickness, staring at a nurse and one of the chopper pilots wrapped together very snugly. I thought of Peg and the first time we danced—she'd smelled like pound cake and too much trashy perfume, like the good southern girl who was trying to impress the California boys. It was, I suppose, what she w—

"…for California?" McIntyre was asking, sniffling and wiping wet hair off his forehead.

"Bourbon," I said, pulling myself back into reality.

"Out of bourbon," said Klinger, who was tending bar.

"Then I'll have what he's having," I said, waving my hand. "I like your earrings, Klinger."

Burns had made him change into fatigues, but he still wore a nice pair of flowered hoops in his ears anyway. Either he was getting away with them, or Frank hadn't seen. He certainly wasn't around the Officer's Club, and also conveniently missing was Major Houlihan.

"Thank you, sir," Klinger said, sliding a bottle of whiskey toward McIntyre and me as we sat at the bar.

"Maybe I don't want any," McIntyre said, pushing the bottle away.

"What are you, sick?" I asked, jokingly putting my hand on his forehead.

"Yeah," he said, in all seriousness, putting his hand over his forehead. "This rain isn't good for me."

"Well, maybe if you didn't insist on getting soaked every time we go into it," I sighed, raising my own hand to McIntyre's cheek. I used my sleeve to dry it off before putting my palm flat against it. "Wow. Fever."

"Never mind," he said, pulling away from my touch.

"You've got a fever," I insisted. "Look, you're even turning red. Isn't he, Klinger?"

"You do look a little flustered, sir," Klinger agreed.

"Shut up," McIntyre said, getting to his feet. He left, the door banging behind him as he dashed out into the rain again.

"Should I go talk to him?" I asked Klinger.

"Nah," Klinger said with a shrug. "Captain Pierce never did."

I bristled slightly at being compared—again—to Pierce, but I didn't go after McIntyre, either. I sat drinking the warm whiskey alone for a while, chatting idly to various people until Major Burns slid in, looking very wet and agitated.

I wrapped my fingers around the neck of the bottle and began to stand up. "I'll take it to go, Klinger."

But it was too late. Burns sat down right beside me, and slung his arm over my shoulders. I slipped away.

"Oh, I guess I am a little wet," he said laughing, apparently completely clueless. "How are you, BJ?"

I sighed. "Fine, Major."

"How was your day?"

"Fine, Major."

"Good, good. Glad you're getting along good."

"Well."

"Well what?"

"I think you mean 'getting along well'."

Frank giggled. "Oh, yeah. That's what I like about you, BJ. You're always on top of things. So thought you should be the first to know." He nodded.

"First to know what?" I asked, with a small glimmer of hope that he was going to tell me the war was over.

"You and that…and McIntyre," he said almost darkly. But he perked up almost immediately. "Are getting a new roommate."

_. - . - . - . - ._

Thanks again to Kelly. Love you. Review and get a free baby.


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